Stay and Fight
by MoonshoesWeasley
Summary: A story about staying, fighting, and nice mornings. Set in season 9. Complete.
1. I Think You Should Stay

On the ride home, they don't speak to each other.

That's not unusual in and of itself, really. They've got two kids (both chatterboxes) and there's generally a voicemail or two for Jim to catch up on, or a phone call to Pam's mom. There's always noise happening and conversations (of one kind or another) taking place.

Not today, though. Today there are no kids, no phones, and no talking.

Pam contemplates jumping right in. He'd asked her to put her dukes up, after all. And their time is limited, because Athlead is pulling Jim away (as they always are) early in the morning and she has to get up to get the kids from her mom's house and they have a lot to talk (fight) about so now seems like as good time as any, right? Except she doesn't know how to start a fight on purpose, so she just sits there and lets the silence inside the car wash over her. On any other ride home it might be comfortable or even welcome, but not today. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should have just gone on to Philly.

Jim, on the other hand, isn't contemplating anything except how much this sucks. He _hates_ fighting, but he especially hates fighting with Pam. He avoids it like the plague, which is maybe what got them into this situation in the first place. Maybe he should have just let her in on the whole thing at the beginning, before he even made that first phone call. Maybe all this could have been avoided, all this tension or roughness or whatever name they can give it without making it sound like the death knell for their marriage. But it was wanting to avoid a fight that made him keep it a secret in the first place, so. Lose-lose.

They make it home and inside the house before they speak. "I'm gonna take a shower before we..." Pam says, and he winces at the unsaid second half of her sentence.

"Sure. Are you hungry?"

"No." She turns and walks down the hallway to the bathroom without so much as glancing in his direction. He gets a little bit angry-this was _her_ idea in the first place, him staying home so they could fight, so why not just get it over with? He imagines himself following her, grabbing her by the arm and whirling her around until to face him and not letting her go until they get it all out. She disappears into the bedroom before he can even take a step, though, so he doesn't. He makes a ham and cheese sandwich instead.

The bread is dry and sticks to the roof of his mouth and he feels a little sick, but that could be due to the looming argument as much as it could be due to the sandwich. He chokes it down anyway. For a second he thinks he'll get a beer to wash it down with, but he decides against it. It'd be ammo for Pam and he doesn't want to give her any more than she already has.

His bitter thoughts surprise him. When did he start thinking like that? Pam isn't the kind of person to store up indiscretions and fling them back in his face during a fight. At least, she never has been before. She's always been good at "I feel this" and "I am hurt" and never "you're an asshole" even when he is.

But he has a hard time believing that this is all his fault. Everything is he does is for his family. _Everything._ Why is it so hard for her to see that? And why was she crying, and why didn't she tell him? If she's so unhappy, why is it that he's the last to know? Why didn't she put up more of a fight at the beginning? His head hurts and his vision is a little blurry and god _damnit_ he hates this _so much._

When Pam enters the kitchen, she sees Jim at the kitchen table. He has his back to the doorway and the fabric of his shirt is stretched tight against his shoulders because he's hunched over with his head in his hands. There's a plate next to him and the bread is out on the counter and she feels a little flame of annoyance. How could he eat at a time like this? She thinks she'll be sick.

He doesn't know she's there and she flirts with the idea of running. Maybe if she hides under the covers he'll eventually come and find her. Maybe if she can pull him into bed they can try to forget all of this through touches and kisses and skin against skin. But that's unrealistic and unlikely, so she sucks it up and speaks first.

"Hey."

He turns to look at her and his eyes are rimmed red. It breaks her heart. She's not annoyed at the plate or the bread anymore...she just feels like a bitch.

He gives her a weak smile and pushes out the chair next to him with his foot. It's a very _Jim_ gesture, considerate and sweet in the way that comes so easy for him. So why can't he understand where she's coming from? She hasn't felt considered in a long time, especially not when it comes to huge and life altering decisions for their family. "Hey. Are you sure you're not hungry? I can make you a sandwich or something."

"No. Thank you, though."

He folds his hands on the table and studies them like they hold the key to fixing his marriage. They don't, of course, so then he studies them like they'll give him an idea of what to say, how to get started. Again, they're no help. He's never done this before. Should he just say what he's thinking? That sounds good, he decides. He'll go with that. "Why didn't you tell me about the crying?"

Pam stiffens. "You don't want more stress. I didn't think you'd want to hear about it."

"Of course I want to hear about it. I'll tell you what I _don't_ want, though, and that's to hear about it from Brian." He'd never felt like a bigger idiot than he had when he'd heard Brian make that comment. It's rare that Pam cries at all, and to hear that she'd cried in front of another man makes something primal inside of him react in a way that he doesn't like. He's not usually so possessive, but it's _his Pam_ and she kept this from him. He hates it. "Were you ever going to tell me? And what was it that made you cry, anyway?"

"I wasn't going to tell you. Maybe I should have, I don't know." She doesn't want to answer the rest of his question, but he looks at her expectantly. "And it was after that phone call we had. Me and you, after Cece's dance recital." His face falls and it feels like she's been punched in the gut. It's a while before she speaks again. "I was so excited to tell you about the mural and you were so...just, whatever it was you were. You got mad at me and I thought I'd gotten her dance but also I was so angry because _you should have been there._ It wasn't my fault that you didn't see it. You _promised_ us, Jim."

They've been over this a thousand times. She _knows_ why he couldn't come. He's starting to feel hot under the collar, literally. "Look," he sighs, and drags his hand down his face without realizing how dramatic it looks. "We have talked about this. We had no way of anticipating that Bridgeport Capital was going to walk, I _had_ to stay—"

"No, Jim, you didn't!" Pam slaps her hand down onto the table in frustration. The sound echoes in the quiet house and her hand stings a little. It fuels her. "You told me back when this started— _after_ we'd already decided that the time wasn't right for us to invest—that our family would come first. You swore up and down—"

"Pam—"

"—and then you disregarded everything we'd agreed on and went behind my back and did it anyway and didn't really give me a choice as far as whether or not it was okay, _and then_ you gave away all of our savings! What if something happens, Jim, and we don't have any money to fall back on? Now you're missing these huge moments with Cece and Phillip and I'm doing it alone. Even when you're here. Because when you're here you're not really, you're still in Philadelphia."

"That's unfair, Pam. All of this is _for_ our family. I want to give us a good life and Athlead can do that. Why is that so hard for you to see?"

She kind of can't believe that he's asking her that. "We don't know that Athlead can do that. You lost a huge investor; what if you guys can't come up with the money? I mean I don't want you to fail, but what if you do? Haven't you thought of that possibility?"

He looks at her in shock. This is the first time that she's been anything but supportive and encouraging. Of course he's thought about them failing—sometimes that's _all_ he can think about—but Pam has never brought it up. It's jarring to hear those words leave her mouth. He feels like she's given up on him. "Wow. I mean, I don't know what to say to that."

She can see the hurt written on his face. Instinctively, she moves to cover his hand with hers but she stops herself, resulting in an awkward jerky movement across the tabletop that she's sure he picks up on. "Jim, I'm sure you guys will be a success. These are just things that you haven't thought about."

That statement propels him up and away from the table. He paces in front of the sink and pushes his hands into his hair because he doesn't know what else to do. He wants to yell, really and truly. Not yell at Pam, per say, just yell in general. It wouldn't win him any points, though, so he forces himself to control his voice as he speaks. "I have thought about this from _every_ angle. I have nightmares about the bottom falling out. How could you think that I'd never thought about it? Pam, the scariest thing I've ever done is throw myself into this without knowing for sure that it will work. But I really believe that it will and when it does, it will be enormous for us. For _us_ us." He gestures in the empty space between the two of them and she shrinks away from him as he motions towards her. Her face is hard and impassive and it breaks his heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

When she speaks again, her voice is low. He's never heard her like that before. He'd almost rather she scream at him. "It doesn't feel like there's an _us_ us right now. Jim. It feels like there's a you and there's a me and the kids." She hangs her head and he knows that she's trying not to cry. Anger flashes through him: she'll hold back tears in front of him, but not in front of Brian? It's quickly replaced by shame coiling in his gut. She's upset, obviously, and he's the one that's caused it. If he could just get to her to see how huge this will be, he knows she'd come around.

"Hey," he says, his voice soft. He stops pacing and kneels in front of her. She has her hands on her knees and he covers them with his. They're so tiny against his palms, and he's suddenly struck with his young she looks. Her hair is still drying from her shower, her pajama pants are faded, the t-shirt she's wearing (one of his, he takes that as a good omen) swallows her. Her eyes are huge and swimming with unshed tears and there's a flush to her cheeks that he thinks must be a result of trying too hard to suppress too much emotion. God, he loves her. He'd give her anything she wanted, do whatever she asked of him, except he can't bring himself to walk away from the huge possibility that's within arms reach. "Look, I know this hasn't been easy. I have no idea what it's like for you here. Just…" he casts his eyes around the room, knowing that what he's about to say is going to be a tough sell. "Just, what if you could be happy in Philly?"

She shifts and he feels her start to pull away so he grabs her hands tighter. "No, listen, will you try? Maybe...I mean, there's a ton of opportunity there for you, Pam. What if we could both have our dream? What if our dreams are in Philly?"

Her voice is small when she replies. "I've been living my dream for the past six years." A tear slips down her face and she brushes it away quickly, like she doesn't want him to see. "I'm already happy here. I would...it would have to be perfect if I were to consider moving. That's a huge thing to ask of me, of our family. There's still no guarantee it will work." He almost afraid to ask what "it" is—moving? Athlead? Their marriage?

He doesn't know it, but Pam is wondering the same thing. Jim doesn't ask, but if he had, she wouldn't have been able to answer him.

Pam watches Jim's thumb rub against the back of her hand. She loves when he does stuff like that. It always makes her feel so wanted, like he just can't help but to touch her. Now, though, it feels cheap. Like he's trying to placate her. Rationally, she knows that he's not. He's here and he's listening and he's _trying_ to find a way to compromise, maybe, and though she feels like she's compromised so much already she knows that she can meet him halfway. Three fourths of the way. Seven eighths, even. "We'll look around, I guess. For something for me." The words taste sour as she says them and that doesn't seem like a good thing.

But Jim looks so hopeful and he hugs her so tightly and she can feel his body sag in relief. He buries his face in her neck and she can hear him saying something, but she can't quite catch whatever it is. She's too busy promising herself that she'll really try, she'll look for the silver lining, so that nobody can accuse her of giving up easily. The implication behind that thought isn't lost on her. It's scary, but…

It's not as scary as it should be.

She just feels so tired. Or rather, like there's a wall around her heart-not a tall one or even a medium sized one. But there used to not be anything there, and now there's definitely something.

Jim pulls away and moves his hands to cradle her face. He makes sure she's looking him in the eye when he says "thank you, Pam. I know it's hard. I think this will be the best thing for our family, though, I really do." He leans in and gives her a chaste kiss that she returns, but maybe only because of muscle memory. She doesn't know for sure. She wonders when decisions about what's best for their family came to rest solely on his shoulders.

He looks at her for a moment longer, his eyes searching her face. She's honestly not sure what he sees. Whatever it is makes him uneasy, she can tell, because his eyebrows knit together in concern as he stands back up. She doesn't mean to be so unreadable or harsh or bitchy or whatever it is, she's just feels so ignored and taken for granted and he's _Jim_ and he'd never purposefully hurt her and—

"Jim. I love you." She knows that for a fact. "It'll—we'll figure it out." She's less certain of that. "I'll try. We just...we need to keep talking."

His expression is so wide open and vulnerable that it's heart wrenching. "I love you. I think so, too."

There's so much more she wants to say but she's tired of fighting. It seems easier to just bury the truth ( _I'm not moving to Philadelphia._ ) somewhere way deep down and deal with it later, if at all. She's good at that, because after all, she did it for years. "I'm tired. I'm gonna go to bed."

"Okay. I need to shower and then I'll be there, too. This...I'm glad I stayed."

She nods, offers the best smile she can muster. "Yeah. Me too."

His shower doesn't take long and she's still awake when he gets in bed. It's dark, though, and she's turned away from him, so he can't see if she's asleep or not. Under the sheets, his hand brushes against her hip, squeezes gently. They always have sex (great sex) after an argument, it's their way of putting everything to bed once and for all, literally. There was no reason why tonight should be different.

But when she hears him whisper her name in the darkness, she pretends to be asleep.


	2. And I Think We Should Fight

**AN: Italicized portions in this chapter represent flashbacks.**

* * *

Their marriage counselor, Dr. Richards, is a nice older man with chunky knit sweaters and horn rimmed glasses and a soothing voice. Those things make it simultaneously easier and harder to get through each session. It's easier because Dr. Richards is encouraging and helpful and has an uncanny ability to tell when one of them isn't being completely honest. He can coax the truth out and into the open without batting an eye. It's harder because the whole truth is hard and marriage counseling is hard and maybe if Dr. Richards wasn't so damn good they wouldn't have to worry about being so vulnerable and potentially hurtful to each other.

But it's good for marriage counseling to be hard, Jim thinks, because a lot of things that are worth doing are hard. And there's nothing that he can think of that's more worth doing than fixing his relationship with Pam. So even though it's weird and they've lost their easy way of communicating and talk in this stilted, awkward, bad blind date way—it's worth it.

Pam is not as convinced as Jim. She's glad they're in counseling because it became glaringly obvious that they needed it ten minutes into their first meeting. It just sometimes feels like it's too little too late. And she's at fault, too—she should have been honest from the beginning. Dr. Richards likes to remind her of that when she points out how much Jim kept from her. There was an opportunity for truth telling that she didn't take and it did some damage. She understands and accepts that, truly. Jim understands and accepts his role in it, too...a role that Pam feels is markedly larger than hers.

It's just hard for her to get over how she feels so unimportant. And she still has so many questions that don't have any answers: how long is Jim planning on staying with Athlead if it isn't immediately successful? What will their family life look like if it _is_ successful? Is she signing up for a life of being in the backseat while Jim's career rides shotgun? This is something that she doesn't know how to navigate, and that would be okay if she could count on Jim to help her...but she feels like she can't.

Dr. Richards sees where Pam is coming from. On occasion, Jim might even be inclined to say that Dr. Richards is on Pam's side, even though one of the first things he'd said was "I'm here to help you communicate, not to choose sides." But he's starting to feel more and more like Pam's side is the side to be on. The thing about Jim is that when he sees an opportunity for something great, he jumps for it. He's always been that way, and for the most part it's worked out for him. Getting in on the ground floor of Athlead was potentially the greatest move he could make, career wise, and at the time he felt like he'd be insane not to do it. He tried to explain that during one of their first sessions, hoping that it would clear some things up for Pam. Dr. Richards had listened thoughtfully as Jim spoke, nodding and smiling and occasionally making a note on his legal pad, and once Jim was finished, he felt vindicated, in a way. _See? It makes sense. It was the right thing to do._

But that's not what Dr. Richards had said.

 _"Now, I understand the opportunity you had and how exciting that must have been. But I understand that you two had discussed it previously?"_

"Yeah. Yeah, we had."

"And Pam, you were not comfortable with it, is that right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"So Jim, I would like for you to think back on the conversation you had with Pam and the reasons that she gave you for not wanting to move forward."

It makes him feel like a jackass, but that moment was when he realized that he hasn't considered how Pam feels, not really. She's given him a lot of good reasons why not and has even thought up a reasonable compromise: give it a year, see where things are, jump in then if it's feasible.

And what has Jim done but ignore all of that and do what he wants? He can't believe that it's taken marriage counseling for him to see how selfish he has been. He sees it now, though, and he's trying to fix it so that he can have it all—the marriage, the family, the career, the happiness. All the pieces aren't quite into place yet, but he's trying. They'll get there.

But he can't help but to be kind of mad, too, and he feels like he has a right to be. Or if not mad, at the very least frustrated. And maybe Dr. Richards isn't totally on Pam's side, because he's been great at pointing out how the blame can't be completely laid on just one of them.

 _"Pam, let's put aside your feelings about Jim joining the company after the two of you decided that he wouldn't do it. How did you react?"_

"Well, I guess...in a supportive way? I mean, I wanted it to succeed and I wanted Jim to be happy."

"And was that in line with how you were feeling at the time?"

Jim could tell that that question shocked her. "I mean, of course. I want those things for Jim."

"I believe that you do. I also believe that you're not being completely honest with yourself or with us."

At that, Pam had glanced sidelong at Jim. The air in the room shifted and he felt like his heart might beat right out of his body because he was so goddamn nervous to hear whatever it was she was about to say. He watched her twist her engagement ring around her finger and take a few steadying breaths before she spoke. When she did, it was quiet. "I was feeling like...I was feeling like I wasn't a partner in our marriage anymore. And I knew that I would never move to Philadelphia. I don't know. I was just really sad. I'm still sad."

"Did you tell Jim that?" She shook her head. "Why?"

"It all moved so fast. I didn't have a choice. I've been so busy with the kids and trying to keep things above water here...the time never seemed right to bring it up because Jim has his own set of worries and I didn't want to add to them. It's been hard. It's hard."

"Do you feel like you've sacrificed so that Jim can pursue this opportunity?"

"Yes," she admitted. He wanted to pull her into his lap and hold her and tell her it's all going to be okay because she looked so small.

"Do you feel taken for granted? Under appreciated?"

He couldn't tell if she sensed that he was trying to make eye contact with her. Either way, she didn't look at him as she nodded her head.

So, okay. Maybe most of the blame can be laid on him. But why couldn't she just have been honest?

Pam has to admit that it's gotten better. Jim has been great. He's really been trying. Dr. Richards gave them homework, even, and she sometimes thinks that maybe they take it a little over the top with truth speaking and opportunity appreciating, but it's better than nothing. Only, they'll take a step forward and then something will happen that takes them two steps back, like when he cuts her off mid-sentence to answer a phone call and she snaps at him sarcastically and he bites right back and she can't believe that they've turned into the kind of couple that fights in front of their coworkers. In front of the cameras that have been following them around for almost a decade, for god's sake. She doesn't recognize the people they've turned into.

She doesn't recognize _herself_. The tiny wall around her heart isn't so tiny anymore-its enormous.

Jim not only doesn't recognize them, he doesn't recognize anything. He feels like his entire life is slipping through his fingers and it's watching it fall away until none of it looks like anything anymore. Everything he was so sure of before has twisted into something scary and foreign. If there's a way to change it back, he doesn't know what it is.

It's his day to leave for Philadelphia. For the first time since he started at Athlead, he's not looking forward to going. He stalls for as long as he can, hoping that they can move past the tension and the iciness before he has to catch his cab, but they don't. Can't? He doesn't know. In a move of desperation he practically begs Pam to hang in there. He's been asking her for a little while longer for six months and he can feel her patience wearing thin, but he needs her to hold on until they can find their way back to each other. He feels so far away from her.

The distance gets wider when he turns to wave at her as he's walking out the door, only to find that she's not even looking at him.

It takes a few seconds, but Pam feels the distance between them widen, too. Seeing his umbrella resting on the edge of the desk gives her the excuse she needs to run after him. After all, it's supposed to storm in Philly over the weekend. He'll need it. And if she doesn't take care of him, who will?

When she gets down to the lobby, she's relieved to see that he's still there. "Jim!" comes out of her mouth a little shrill and scared and worried and unsure and it's an accurate representation of her emotions. If only someone could just tell her how to get past all of that. Marriage counseling hasn't given her an instruction booklet, though, so she's stuck worrying that they're not only telling different versions of the same story but that they're telling different stories all together.

When Jim chases after her, she thinks for a second that he's got the answers, but he looks just as clueless as she feels. But then he hugs her, and it makes her think about their wedding and first Corinthians and love and hope and trust and she's a little bit slow on the uptake, but she realizes that _this_ is the answer.

She hugs him back, hard, and he makes a little sound almost like a sob, but in relief. Like he's been scared that he was going to lose her. If they were in any other circumstances she would have laughed because it's suddenly _so clear_ that she's not going _anywhere_. For him _or_ her to have ever thought differently was ridiculous; what were they thinking? She sees it with a clarity that has been reserved for only the most important moments of her life: when she left Roy, when she told Jim she loved him for the the first time, when she saw her children for the first time and knew she'd die to protect them. And now.

The wall around her heart crumbles as she clings to him like she'll fall to the ground without his support. He holds onto her like he feels the same. They might not be on the same page, but she's positive that they're telling the same story. It's not rainbows and sunshine all the time, especially not right now, but every good story has conflict. What's more, every good story has resolution. They just have to keep working on writing it.

The need to affirm how she feels to him is overwhelming, so she does the only thing she can think to do and kisses him. She pours her soul into it and wants to cry because he does the same. It feels new, kind of. No, it feels different. Like they're waking up after being asleep for a long, long time.

For the first time in six months, they're in sync with each other. "I love you" rolls off their tongues with the ease that's been missing and they both know that neither one of them have been more sure of anything in their lives. It's not fixed, of course, but they can both finally see the bright light at the end of the tunnel.

The cab driver probably thinks they're crazy, but Jim has his face buried in his wife's neck and he'd almost forgotten what her hair felt like against his cheek and he doesn't give a damn what anybody thinks because he's been so scared he'd never hold her like his again. His voice is thick with emotion and muffled by her hair when he softly says "I'm so sorry."

She sags against him and her voice breaks when she speaks. "Me too, I'm so sorry. I don't want-it's been so hard, and I'm so sorry."

"I'm not going to Philadelphia."

She tries to pull away so she can look at him, but he won't let her. She speaks against his shoulder instead. "No, Jim. You don't have to do that, I promise."

"Yes, I do. I'm staying. This is worth fighting for."


	3. Nice Morning, Too

Pam's eyes pop open just before 6:00 AM. Life with two kids has conditioned her to come out of a deep sleep around the same time every morning-right before Phillip starts making noises from his bedroom down the hall and about thirty minutes before Cece is out of bed and well on her way to making a mess in the kitchen in search of breakfast. So even on the days when there aren't any kids in the house (as rare as those days are), she finds herself awake at her usual time. And this particular morning happens to be one of those aforementioned rare occurrences with no kids, so there's no reason for her to do anything other than turn her head towards her husband and settle deeper into the mattress.

Jim is still asleep and Pam takes the opportunity to study his face. She's done this before, of course, but not since he'd decided to indefinitely suspend his time with Athlead. For the past six months, his eyebrows have been knit together with worry and the corners of his mouth tucked into a frown, even in sleep. Now he looks peaceful and contented. He looks like Jim, _her_ Jim, and he's gorgeous.

As she studies him, his eyes slowly open. He blinks the sleep away as his brain wakes up and processes the scene in front of him: Pam still in bed, laying on her stomach with her arms tucked underneath her pillow, curly hair in its natural state brushing against the top of her bare shoulder, smile in her eyes and on her lips. She's breathtaking. He hopes to God or whoever is out there listening that he can keep doing whatever it is he does that gets her to look at him like that, forever and ever.

Underneath the sheets, he reaches for her. His hand brushes against her hip, against warm skin and the soft cotton of her underwear. Her eyes close as his hand travels across her lower back with a touch so light that she has to concentrate to feel it. The sensation of his fingertips caressing her skin is spine-tingling and delicious. She sighs as he strokes her back and she's so relaxed that she thinks she might go back to sleep when his hand meets the waistband of her underwear and slips beneath it.

Jim palms the fullness of Pam's ass and squeezes gently. His fingers are long enough that they graze her inner thigh and he feels a curl of pleasure in his chest when she gasps. He slips his hand a little lower and squeezes again. She reads his intent and moves her body towards him, turning so that her chest can press against his. He raises his head so she can slide her arms around him and he finds himself in the perfect position to put his mouth against her neck, so he does.

As Jim places soft, wet, open-mouthed kisses against Pam's neck and collarbone and shoulder, she raises one leg and hooks it over his hip. He takes advantage of the new angle and moves his hand until it's in between them and slides it even lower. The path he takes to where Pam is increasingly desperate to be touched is agonizingly slow, and he teases by cupping her and providing just the tiniest hint of pressure with the heel of his palm. She can't stop the whine that escapes from back of her throat or the way she grinds against his hand. He chuckles at her reaction—she knows he's proud of himself—and his fingers finally slip between her folds and find her warm and wet.

Pam wastes no time in trailing her fingers along the length of his erection, heavy and hot and hard underneath his boxer briefs. She mimics his earlier motion and cups him through the fabric. He bucks against her slightly and his fingers twitch against her opening and those things feel good, so she does it again. She's rewarded with a gentle bite on the top of shoulder. The scrape of his teeth against her skin makes a flame of pleasure ignite directly between her legs, so she does it a third time.

This time, her reward is better than a bite. Two of his long fingers slide inside of her and crook immediately. He's well practiced and he knows what she likes, so his thumb finds her clit and starts circling gently. Her back arches automatically and the hand not against his hard-on grasps the back of his head. The fingers inside of her pump in and out gently while his thumb presses against her most sensitive spot, and she can't stop from writhing against him.

She thinks that two can play that game. With a little help from him, she pushes his underwear down far enough for his erection to be freed from the constraints of cotton and elastic. It brushes against her stomach and his hips jerk towards her at the contact. When she wraps her hand around him and starts stroking, he makes a quiet little sound in the back of his throat.

For a few moments, she tries to keep the same rhythm that he's setting with his fingers. She succeeds at first, but soon he starts moving his fingers faster and rubbing his thumb in tight little circles. Her hand slows as she rolls her hips with his movements and stop all together when she feels his free hand at the nape of her neck, where it gets tangled in her hair and tugs her head black.

The column of her throat and neck is so lovely when she has her head back, he thinks. Like a Roman statue or something, smooth and pale and so perfect in its detail. He wants to taste her there—again—so he dips his head and trails his tongue along the valley made by taut muscle and skin. His hand works harder, faster; his thumb circles more insistently, and he knows her well enough to know that she's close. He pushes on the back of her head and his lips find hers just as he feels her tighten against his fingers and her leg start to shake.

They don't bother with being chaste as they kiss. His tongue slides directly into her mouth and starts exploring immediately, impatient and wanting. She is a little lazier (who can blame her?) but it's hot, the way she's slow and languid and sensual. It makes him slow down, just a bit, and he can feel her smile against his mouth, just before she sucks his lower lip between hers and teases it with her teeth. That drives him crazy and she knows it. Her hand around his cock is still and relaxed and he can't help but thrust into it, just a little, and then a little more when he feels her grip tighten.

Before too long he's got the heel of his palm pressed against her clit and is almost using it for purchase as he drives into her hand. She rotates her hips in a figure eight motion, finding the speed and the pressure that she likes while simultaneously stroking him. He almost feels like he's in his senior year of high school again, getting a frenzied hand job while underneath a blanket in his old girlfriends basement while he awkwardly paws at her. Except high school can't compare to this, to the woman of his dream all but undulating against the palm of his hand while her own hands are busy clutching at his shoulder and pumping around his cock. But the kind-of-but-not-really-nervous fluttery feeling in his chest is reminiscent of his younger days, as is the thought that this is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him. And if he's not careful, he's going to have the stamina he had in high school, too. He's getting dangerously close; the heady feeling of Pam's skin against his, the way she's moving her body and pleasuring herself on with the heel of his hand, the sensation of her tongue sliding against his, the skilled way she moves her hand along his length—the cumulative effect of all those things is bringing him right up to the brink.

He moves his hand from between her legs and pushes on her hip, rolling her to her back. She keeps stroking him, adding her newly freed hand, and it feels so good he _almost_ gives in. And he has to admit, the self satisfied look she gets after she makes him come with her hands—even the mess it means he makes on her stomach, which he knows she thinks is hot—is one of the sexiest things he's ever seen. But as much as he enjoys that particular activity, he knows he'd rather be buried inside of her when he comes, not hovering over her. With that in mind, he slowly moves himself out of her reach. She sticks her lower lip out at him and he bends down to copy her from before, sucks it into his mouth and drags his across his teeth. It drives her crazy, too.

Her hands are insistent at the waistband of his boxer briefs and she's able to get them down around his upper thighs before he helps her with the rest. She tugs at his hips, her intention obvious, but he smiles innocently at her and ducks his head to the skin below her collarbone. He kisses in the valley of her breasts, then cups one in his hand and swipes his thumb across her nipple before replacing it with his tongue. Her back arches into his mouth and she presses her hands against his head, keeping him there. He's glad to oblige, licking and sucking and swirling his tongue in the way she likes, only moving his mouth when it's time to lave attention on her other nipple. He can't play favorites, after all.

That's not true, because he definitely has a favorite place to use his mouth on her body. She has a favorite too—they happen to be the same—and he grins knowingly when he feels her hands push against his head, urging him lower. He settles himself between her legs and hooks his fingers into the waistband of her underwear: simple cotton bikinis in a pretty lavender color, a wet spot directly in the center. She lifts her hips so he can pull them down and toss them aside. As soon as they're gone, he leans down and covers her with a kiss.

It isn't long before she has her head pressed into the pillow behind her and her thighs clenched against his face. It'd be embarrassing if it didn't feel so good. When they first got together, she'd wanted to ask him where (or on who) he learned how to do _that_ so well, so she could find them and give them a heartfelt thank you. Mostly it's that he responds to what she responds to and stays consistent in his ministrations, so that when she's teetering over the edge she never has to worry about him switching it up and doing something she didn't like. Granted, she'd be hard pressed to name something he did that she doesn't like, but still. He knows what to do to make her come quickly, and he does it: long lapping strokes strokes against her clit punctuated every now and then by capturing it between his lips and sucking gently, all the while steadily working those same two fingers in and out, in and out.

One of her hands clench in his hair, probably pulling too hard to feel good, but he doesn't seem to mind. The other hand is busy at one of her breasts, rolling and tugging at her nipple. He recognizes her actions for what they are—she's close—so he lays an arm across her hips to keep them still and keeping doing what he knows she likes. She jerks underneath his arm, her body aching to get closer to the source of all her pleasure. When she comes, the muscles in her stomach contract and pull her off the bed and the hand in his hair holds his head against her body while she quivers. His nose is pressed against her skin and he's too busy licking to worry about taking a breath and he briefly thinks that if he suffocates, well, what a way to go.

She relaxes her grip, though, and falls back onto the bed. Her body is boneless, heavy with satisfaction, and she barely registers that he's no longer between her legs but now settled atop her. One of his hands holds his cock against her, sliding it up and down to capture some of her wetness for lubrication, and she thrills at the way it throbs against her. When he pushes himself inside of her, she's still so sensitive that it makes her breath hitch. He buries himself to the hilt and she manages to grab his hip before he starts moving, indicating that she needs a minute. Otherwise she might vibrate out of her skin with the intensity of how he feels inside her.

He needs a distraction, then, because he _desperately_ wants to start thrusting, so he kisses her again. She kisses him back, greedy and lazy and insistent and slow all at once. The taste of him mixed with the taste of her is intoxicating, it makes her head feel light and his hips start circling against hers. The motion makes the base of his shaft brush against her clit, just barely, but enough to make little moans comes stuttering out from between her lips. After a few of those and one softly exhaled and catchy _oh, Jim,_ he can't stop himself from starting to move.

At first he's slow, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in and solidly settling inside of her. It's tantalizing and torturous and Pam hooks her ankles behind his back and tries to push him into her harder, faster. He resists for a bit, keeps up that slow pace, but soon he needs more.

He sits back on his haunches and grabs her hips so he can angle her more towards him. Her legs are still wrapped around his waist and it takes a few seconds of him tugging behind her knee before she realizes he wants her to move them. When she does, he practically folds her in half, his hands gripping the backs of her thighs hard and pushing her legs towards her chest. In this new position and with the new angle, his thrusts go so deep that she completely ceases to think except for _yes yes yes_. It's just too good.

His fingers on her legs are pressing hard enough to leave bruises, he's sure, but judging by the flush on her cheeks and the whimpering sound she's making, she doesn't mind. Any semblance of tempo or rhythm is thrown out the window, because she's tight and wet and warm around him and he's edging closer and closer to coming. He attempts to slow down so he can better pay attention to her—he's nothing if not attentive when it comes to sex—but she takes matters into her own hands. Rather, hand, as one of them snakes down between her legs and starts rubbing. Her fingertips brush against him as he thrusts and he just knows it's going to be his undoing.

And sure enough, it's not too much longer before he's as deep within her as possible and coming hard. Her fingers stay busy on her clit as she rushes to catch up and he encourages her by leaning down and taking one of her nipples between his teeth. Maybe it's that, or maybe it's the change in angle, or maybe it's the way he's still pulsing and throbbing inside of her, he doesn't know, but she explodes almost immediately. Her body clenches and releases around him and he can feel her hips arch off the bed towards his, like she's yearning to be a close to him as possible as her organs rockets through her. As she comes down, he soothes the tender skin of her nipple with his tongue and rests his head on her chest, where he can hear her heartbeat.

Eventually it slows and her breathing returns to normal (his, too). When it does, he rolls off of her and to one side. Her cheeks are pink and there are a few wispy curls stuck to her sweaty forehead. She looks happy and satisfied and radiant and he can't believe he came so close to losing her. He will happily spend the rest of his life making it up to her in every way that he knows how.

He doesn't know it, but she's thinking much the same thing. They were so close to being broken for so long, and she will never stop fighting to keep it from happening again.

Next to her, Jim stretches. His body is long and lean and sexy as hell, so she watches without attempting to hide it. He notices, of course, and laughs warmly before speaking the first words either of them have said since waking. "We can do this every morning if it means you look at me like that afterwards."

She scoffs. "Yeah, right. You couldn't handle it, Halpert."

He winks at her and she feels a shock of electricity right between her legs—she's got a pretty short refractory period. "I'd be happy to try, Beesly." She laughs but doesn't respond, just slides gracefully off the bed and sashays to the shower.

They get distracted in the shower and again after they get out and start getting dressed. They don't end up back in bed, but they caress and kiss and enjoy the knowledge that they're alive and with one another and happy. When they show up to work just under half an hour late, Dwight raises his eyebrows and wags his finger at them, but they don't care.

It's been a nice morning.


End file.
